Page 63 of Work: Strictly Professional

They’d probably actually all be quite supportive.

Ugh.

I need an entirely new group of friends.

Mine are complete animals.

28

Derek

Anticipation has never feltanything like this. My skin is crawling with it. My mind too. Everything is heightened. The sounds of the city waking are exaggerated. Car horns and sirens reverberate through me long after they’ve passed. The air in my building is cooler and crisper than usual. The hair on my arms stands on end when I move, and I feel it, the air on my skin. I feel it in a way I haven’t felt for a long, long time. It’s a whisper, a promise of something major.

It’s clear I’m a little out of control right now, I’m not denying that, but for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel alive. I’m so alive I can feel each individual beat of my heart. I can feel oxygen leaving my lungs and blood flooding my veins. The prospect of being with Wyn and doing what we’re going to do today feels like that, like blood in my veins. It feels right. It feels true.

I got to work two full hours early this morning, and I’ve been pacing my office since then. My dick hasn’t been this hard for this long since I was fifteen. My ear has been trained on the elevator since I got here, despite the fact that I know damn wellWyn doesn’t get in until eight. The elevator doesn’t ding, but eventually, the tiny numbers above the doors start to light up. The fifth floor is the first to come alive. It lights up four times before any other floor does. Looks like my admin staff needs a raise.

Might call HR about that later.

The seventh floor is next. My legal team isn’t bad either. Nor is finance and planning.

By the time it’s a few minutes before eight, almost every light above the elevator door is glowing. I stop pacing and stand at the gallery window, narrowly managing to avoid pressing my face against the glass. I physically jump when the light for our floor blinks to life. If I thought my dick was hard before, I was wrong. It’s steel now, hard and hot, throbbing with excitement.

Be cool, I tell myself as the doors open and Wyn appears. He’s in a pale-blue shirt today, one that’s maybe two shades lighter than his eyes, and he’s wearing the same bow tie he wore the first week he started working here.

A beautiful boy wrapped in a pink-and-blue checkered ribbon.

The sight of him makes me ache. It makes me hard on the outside and soft and flaky on the inside. I feel hollow and uncomfortable, overly aware of my belly twisting and cramping.

Hungry. I’m hungry. Starved. Ravenous for him.

I watch as he sets his bag down and checks his messages. He holds the handset in his right hand at first and then clamps it between his ear and shoulder. He’s facing the elevator, face in full profile, and oh God, that ski-slope nose needs to be kissed. His lips too. The full, puffy bottom one especially. That one needs to be pulled into my mouth and clamped gently between my teeth. He takes his pearlescent notepad out and writes in it as he listens to his messages.

His handwriting is neat and curly with long, swoopy tails for letters likeGandY. I know that from the Post-its he sticks on the documents he leaves on my desk for me. Usually, the note is unnoteworthy, a simple do this or do that, but recently, they’ve gotten a little stronger, a little more audacious. It started when we got back from the wedding. On Tuesday, I got aDon’t even think about heading home until you’ve read this, and yesterday, he leftPut the red pen away, Satan. These minutes are perfection.

I folded the Satan note and put it in my pocket when he wasn’t looking. I took it home and carefully unfolded it, pressing it down and smoothing it out as much as I could, and then I put it in a box I keep next to my bed for safekeeping.

Be cool, I tell myself again as he hangs up his handset. I ignore my own good advice completely, grabbing my phone and hitting one on speed dial so fast you’d be forgiven for thinking I was in the throes of a medical emergency.

“Good morning, Mr. MacAvoy,” he chirps.

“My office. Now.” He turns his head and time slows. His chest rises and falls, and even over here, through a wall and solid glass, I feel the breath he exhales on my face. This time, it’s a growl that carries heat. “Now!”

He jumps up, lips pressed together, eyes showing a clear ring of white all the way around blue, and comes to me.

“Lock the door,” I tell him before he’s crossed the threshold. He does as I say, turning his back on me and the sight of that, the sight of Wyn with his back turned to me, is too much. Something deep inside me breaks free. Something feral. Something wild. As the lock snicks shut, I charge and crash into Wyn. I grab his hips and drag him toward me, grinding my cock against his ass.

Good. It feels good. It feels like more, so I move closer, pressing him hard against the door, forcing him to brace himself with both hands. My hips rock back and forth, out of control,grazing my cock against the worsted wool of his pants, finding the valley between his ass cheeks and burrowing in as deep as I can. My hips move involuntarily, without any explicit intention from me. Every thrust, heaven.

Wyn’s neck arches back and leans to the side. It’s an offering. I take it. I sink my mouth onto his jugular and kiss and suck until he moans. The sound of his arousal jolts me from my stupor.

Pants.

Belt.

Underwear.

All of these things stand in my way. All of them are intolerable to me. I reach around Wyn’s waist and start yanking at his belt. He’s right here with me. His hands are already there, unbuckling and unzipping as I tear at his waistband, trying dumbly to pull his pants down before the top button is undone. At last, they give way. He’s free. I shove my fingers under the waistband of his pants and boxer briefs and yank them down to his knees.

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